Finton Moon

by Gerard Collins

  She squat in the snow across from him, her hands red, her discarded mittens lying in the snow beside her. A mischievous grin adorned her face.

  Found

  She brushed the snow from his face and chest. “Talk to me,” she said. But his tongue was too numb for words. By wrapping one of his arms around her shoulder and leveraging him upward, she coaxed him to stand. She shouldered him ploddingly along until the foxhole had receded from view. Gradually, he became more alert and noticed she was dressed all in white except for her brown boots that looked like some kind of animal skin. Her mittens were green like Granny Smith apples. Her pants and down-filled jacket, even her hat, were whiter than the snow and so dazzling he had to shield his eyes.

  The longer they walked, her arm around his waist, the warmer he got. Eventually, the numbness fell away from his legs and he was able to lumber solo.

  “What in God’s name were you doing there?”

  “Th-thinking.” His teeth chattered, and his breath was visible. “Whwhat are you doing here?”

  “I scouted you.” She shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal that she stalked him occasionally. And sometimes, like now, it came in handy. “Did you think about the fact that you coulda killed yerself?”

  He watched the silent, white world slip past, the snow still dense, though less than before. Gradually, as he observed the same familiar trees and rocks, he began to feel as if he were emerging from a long journey or an extensive sleep.

  They weren’t following his usual trail. He had always known of a diverging path, and this was the one toward which Alicia steered him, although it had recently been obscured by snow. No need to ask—he knew where they were going.

  In snow, the Dredge property looked the same as any other place. When he hesitated on the doorstep, she grabbed his hand. “Come on.” He followed close behind her, his legs still numb—closed his eyes against the dual smells of cat’s piss and rotting wood. As they stepped into the kitchen, she pulled a chrome, padded chair alongside the table for him, and then she began stripping him—first his boots and then his socks, revealing his reddened feet. “Jesus,” she muttered.

  “What’s he doin’ here?” It was Alicia’s brother Willie, in only his underwear, chewing on a red Twizzler, his ears even redder.

  “What are you doin’ here, smarty-pants? You should be in school.”

  “So should you, shit-for-brains.”

  “He got caught in the snowstorm. Help me get him into the bathtub.”

  “You’re off yer head, girl. What are you gonna do—take his clothes off?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Arsehole.”

  “Bitch.”

  “I should go home.” Finton tried to stand, but just as suddenly, found himself sinking until his behind was in the chair. And yet he had the sensation of floating towards the ceiling. Alicia laid a hand on his shoulder, a motion more comforting than anything his mother had ever done, and the next few minutes were a blur as he was lifted and moved. In his dazed and nauseous state, he calculated that if he opened his eyes, he would definitely vomit. Alicia managed to guide him onto the toilet seat and, despite his mild protests, she proceeded to pull off his pants. At some point, she had also begun running water in the bathtub, its hollow babbling making the room small and all other sounds muffled and detached.

  A knock came on the bathroom door. The door opened slightly, and Mrs. Dredge demanded to know what in God’s name her daughter was at. He clenched his eyes shut for fear of discovering the scene was real—drunk and dazed in the bathroom with Alicia Dredge, pants to his knees, and her mother barging in and catching them in the act. Too strange-headed to care, he was nonetheless relieved when the door closed, allowing Alicia to finish the task.

  “Keep your underwear on.” She laid a steadying, cool hand on the small of his back. When he was finally soaking in the tub—trying not to think about the peculiarity of the moment—and she was wiping down his face and neck with a cloth drenched in hot water—he inhaled so deeply that the breath caught in his chest as he choked a rising sob. Something about the way she stroked his body with the cloth made him wish his life was better, that he loved his family, that it wasn’t all so ridiculous.

  “I love you,” she whispered. He pretended not to hear.

  Meet the Dredges

  Watching the Dredges eat supper was like witnessing a dozen exuberant puppies feed from the same bowl. Finton, without his underwear and wearing a black bathrobe that smelled of dog, sat in a corner as bodies bustled around the chrome-trimmed table. Some stuffed food into their mouths, forks grasped in one hand like tridents and plates balanced in the other like shields. Alicia’s mother had baked fresh bread to be dunked in the pea soup, but Willie was boiling spaghetti in a giant pot while another baked pizza. Yet another Dredge—a boy of about eight, whose name was Stinky—watched with wide, hungry eyes over a steaming pot of boiling fat that he’d stuffed with potato wedges and a chunk of hamburger meat. An older girl with freckles and copper hair munched an uncooked wiener as she slammed the refrigerator door, then tromped to the living room.

  Finton wished there was a polite way to excuse himself, gather up his wet clothes, and go home. But Alicia had already called Elsie Moon to ask permission for him to stay for supper. He imagined his mother had been surprised, yet polite, when she’d said it was all right. In fact, Kieran was at their place and had agreed to stay for supper. So Finton found himself imprisoned, uncertain of a timely release.

  Suddenly, as though some signal had been given, everyone who would be eating at the table sat down, while all others found a corner elsewhere in the house. Elbows on the table, all fell quiet. Alicia clasped her hands and bowed her head. Finton pulled his chair close to the table, joined his hands, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. When he opened his eyes, his previously empty bowl was now full of pea soup.

  Mrs. Dredge’s grace was terse, thankful, and to the point. Then, as if on cue, the kitchen door banged open, and Alicia’s father flew in like debris in a storm.

  Phonse Dredge appeared exhausted and perturbed, the lines on his face like crumpled pieces of paper around his eyes and mouth, deeper than when Finton last saw him. His disheveled hair, though formerly pure white, was now mingled with a few yellow strands that made his crown look like peed-on snow. Despite the fact that he possessed an air of rushing in at the last possible moment, his deep-set eyes conveyed a weariness, like a man who had been through the holy wars and was ready to lay down his life to the next soldier who pointed a gun at him.

  When he saw Finton, those same pupils dilated as if sensing a threat. In an instant, the boy recalled the story his father had told about the night Phonse had seen the devil outside his watchman’s shack—he could picture the scene as if he’d heard the story only a moment ago. Now, years later, he looked like a man who’d been living ever since with that image of evil in his head. Mrs. Dredge welcomed him home and a couple of the younger ones cheered, but none of the others looked up from their soup. His gaze immediately fell on the strange boy at the table.

  “Finton got caught in the snow,” Alicia said. “His clothes are wet, so I asked him to stay for supper.”

  Phonse grunted and pulled off his coat as he trudged through the kitchen, on his way to the living room. “Get me a beer,” he said to one of the girls as he lowered himself into the ragged, brown recliner.

  “Your supper’s gettin’ cold.” Mrs. Dredge turned her neck sideways in an uncaring manner. Finton gleaned that this was a daily conversation, with him always late and her battling to keep the meals from going to pot.

  The TV was turned up. The news was on, Glenn Tilley’s sharp baritone propounding the headlines of the day against the background noise of smacking gums, loud chewing, and the scraping of forks against plates. Even the deep fryer had settled into a cautious simmer.

  Finton and Alicia exchanged glances as she shook her head and kept eating.

  “The soup
is really good,” he said. True enough, while the pea soup resembled something a dog might regurgitate, its flavour was unexpectedly pleasant.

  “How’s your father doing?” The raspy voice from the living room made Finton spasm in fright, but the sound was so distant he didn’t immediately realize that Phonse Dredge was talking to him. When Alicia nudged him, he offered the first answer that came to his mind, but the words got stuck in his throat.

  “Speak up, b’y. I said how’s your father?”

  “He’s all right.” Finton spoke louder and hoped it was sufficient.

  The footsteps on the canvas made his heart leap into his throat. Finton cringed when he saw a hard object in Phonse’s left hand as he entered the kitchen, but sighed with relief when he realized it was only a beer bottle.

  “All right, is he?”

  “Yessir.”

  Phonse laughed, an unpleasant sound that made Finton feel as if a shit storm was coming. “I’m neither a teacher nor a policeman, so you can knock off the sir. To you, I’m Mister Dredge.”

  “Yes, Mister Dredge.”

  He eyed Finton’s empty bowl. “Supper good, was it?”

  Only then, in glancing around surreptitiously, did the lad realize he was the first one finished. “Yessir—Mister Dredge.”

  Phonse’s smile revealed his lone, yellow tooth. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” He swigged from the bottle, maintaining a firm gaze on the boy. Despite the fact that he was obviously attempting to intimidate him, Finton sensed fear emanating from his pores. At first, he couldn’t fathom what a man like Phonse Dredge had to worry about from the likes of him, but there was no mistaking that this man desired to beat the living shit out of him. And then, of course, he remembered Phonse’s small part in both Miss Bridie’s story and Sawyer’s as a witness to those matters that should not be spoken of.

  “No, sir. My father often says the only two things I need to be afraid of are him and God, and you’re not either one.”

  “Are you saucin’ me, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  Phonse rubbed his hand across his chin, caressing the stubble as if pondering heavy thoughts. He nodded towards the bowl. “Do you want more soup?”

  Finton’s stomach was nearly empty, and he’d worked up an appetite trudging here in bad weather. In fact, he easily could go for another bowl of soup and another slice of that delicious, warm bread. “Please—” His plea was interrupted by a kick in the back of his leg and a narrowed look from Alicia. “No, thank you, sir. I’ll be going home now.”

  “Come on,” said Alicia. “We’ll get you something to wear.”

  As Finton got to his feet, Phonse kept rubbing his hand across his bristle, gazing at the boy. “Well, tell your father… we should have a beer sometime.”

  “Yessir.”

  Phonse grimaced, and Finton felt he could read his mind. It was not the soul of an innocent. His black heart pumped thick, oily sludge through decrepit veins like thin, rusted pipes. This man is afraid of me, he thought. He’s sure I know something about him.

  “Come on.” Alicia tugged Finton’s arm.

  “Stay, sure. Have more soup.” Phonse looked askance at his wife. “Surely to God we can give ’im some more soup. Those poor Moons don’t have very much.” He blessed himself with the hand that held the bottle.

  Hauling on one of his arms, Alicia dragged Finton down the hallway and into a small room stuffed with garbage bags, cardboard boxes, comic books, old games, toys, and clothing—all of it cobwebbed and musty. The room was dank and dark, with a small, fogged window and a white sheet drawn across the door frame. “This is where we keep the stuff we don’t throw away.”

  “Why don’t you just throw stuff out?”

  “Mom doesn’t throw anything out. She says you never know when you might need it.”

  “I can wear my own clothes,” he said.

  “They’re still wet. You’ll catch a cold or pneumonia if you goes wearin’ them. You look cute in Kieran’s bathrobe, though.”

  “Kieran… oh, your brother Kieran.”

  “He’s way older than me. Went away to cop school, but he’s back here now with the RCMP.”

  “You must be some proud to have a policeman in the family.”

  “You have no idea.” She seemed about to explain, but simply added, “It’s complicated.”

  Alicia sifted through piles of clothing, mostly of the summer variety. Now and then, she’d pause on a sweater or a pair of slacks, most of it old and smelly.

  “Honestly, I can just go with what I have on.”

  “You’ll be a laughing stock in that, b’y.” She held up a gigantic brown snowsuit, which looked to have all of its limbs and other vital parts intact. “This is Dad’s, but I don’t think he uses it no more.”

  Upon closer inspection, both Alicia and Finton noticed the large, dark stain in front. “Well,” she said. “You’re not going very far in it.”

  Finton gazed at the offering and pondered whether to wear it. He’d just decided it was better than walking home in a black bathrobe when Alicia turned towards him with an armful of clothing. “There might be something better here.”

  Finton grabbed the oversized, green sweater and brown corduroys she was offering. “I’ll just put these on.” But she didn’t let go. He tugged on the garments and Alicia came along with them, pressing her face towards his. Just for a moment, he wanted to kiss her. But visions of Bernard Crowley flashed in his head, so he pulled back and yanked the clothes from her hands.

  “You can change in my room,” she said. She guided him down the short hallway and waited outside the bedroom door. When he’d gotten dressed—and accepted his wet clothes in a green garbage bag—he hustled towards the kitchen. The fire in the stove was still going strong, but most of the Dredges had already scattered to other parts of the house or outdoors. The dishes were piled next to the sink. “Gotta clean up,” Alicia said as she rolled up her sleeves.

  He hesitated, wondering what he should do. She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening with unreadable emotion. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He approached her at the sink and lowered his voice. “What do you think I should do?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She rubbed her arms for warmth, then gently laid a hand on his arm, startling him with the unexpected show of affection. She rubbed his arm, then suddenly withdrew her hand and said, “You should go.”

  Finton nodded and started to leave. “Thank you for—”

  “Shhhh…” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Just forget it.”

  Recovery

  Past the saltbox houses where kitchen lights gleamed, Finton strode home in his borrowed clothes, carrying his wet ones slung on his back. The blue-black ocean, beyond the ashen trees, sparkled in the dying light of an early winter sun. As if to belie the oncoming darkness, a layer of snow brightened each lawn, concealing a multitude of landscape deficiencies. With every step, he was plagued by doubts, yet filled with certainty. There was much that the world had decided about him, and for him. But there was also much he’d decided about the world.

  “Fancy duds,” Kieran said when Finton walked in the front door and lay the garbage bag on the linoleum. The constable stood by the kitchen window, wearing his usual uniform, although the top button was undone, and his white t-shirt showed through.

  They were all sitting there, plates already emptied of baked beans. Tom was at the head of the table, Nanny Moon on his right and Elsie next to her. The two boys sat on their father’s left, with Homer closest to him. Only Kieran was standing, as if preparing to leave.

  Finton had forgotten about his Dredge costume. When Kieran noticed, he merely shrugged and sat down.

  “We were just talking about you,” Elsie said. “How’d you get your clothes wet?”

  “I lay down in the snow,” he said.

  “Why in the name of God did you do that?”

  “Because I didn’t care if I lived
anymore.”

  Silence filled the room, an unwanted guest.

  “I think we’d better talk about this later,” she said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it at all. I’m over it now.”

  “That’s not for you to say,” Tom said. “Your mother and I will decide that.”

  “No, you won’t. I’m sick of everybody else deciding what I can do and what I can’t—what I can talk about and what I’m supposed to keep quiet about. As of now, I’m doing things my own way, and everybody else can just worry about themselves.”

  Elsie’s face was flushed, and her eyes flashed with anger. “Finton, go to your room.”

  “I’m too old to go to my room.”

  “You’ll never be too old or too big for me to handle,” said Tom. “Now do what your mother tells you.”

  “Yeah—like you do.”

  “Finton!” Elsie’s eyes were pleading now. They all knew better than to provoke Tom’s temper. “Go to your room now.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re just saying that because Kieran is here.”

  His father rose from his seat and grabbed Finton’s shoulder. “Listen here, ” he started to say, but Kieran’s sharp cough caught the attention of them all.

  “Finton, would you mind walking to the car with me? I’d like a word with you.”

  As Tom’s face showed shock, the youth broke free from his father’s grip and followed the policeman, who tipped his hat to Elsie and again to Nanny Moon. “Good night, all.”

  “They’ve all been worried sick about you,” Kieran said as they walked to the police car.

  Finton stuck his hands into a pockets and kicked the bumper. “I’m all right.”

  “Really?” Kieran seemed neither angry nor earnest. It was one of those strange moods that Finton had a hard time pegging. Because of the uniform, everything he said carried extra weight. Kieran never seemed to take anything too serious, and yet everything, to him, was extremely important. “Are you happy, Finton?”